


Sea of Trouble

by fredbassett



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1470097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Setting himself up as bait had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now, with a sword cut to his thigh and no one to tend to it, Aramis is beginning to doubt the wisdom of his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea of Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> A/N : Written for this prompt : http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=1069318#cmt1069318 on the Dreamwidth Musketeers Kink Meme.

As distractions went, Aramis felt that the one he’d just put into action had succeeded rather spectacularly.

Almost too spectacularly, if truth be told.

Over half of their pursuers had peeled off after him, leaving his comrades to continue their headlong flight to the chateau, still in possession of the dispatches that Treville had entrusted to them. The bag dangling from Aramis’ shoulder had given the impression to at least some of their adversaries that he was the one they wanted, hence the current game of hare and hounds.

Aramis prided himself on his ability to ride and shoot at the same time, and even fleeing on horseback through a forest he was still able to take the leader down with one well-aimed musket ball. The second proved trickier and he was not able to do more than put a bullet through the man’s shoulder, but at least it served to take him out of the reckoning. Fortunately for Aramis, the third was somewhat careless in his headlong dash through the woods, ending up swept from his horse’s back by a low branch. The fourth proved to be both determined and skilful, but for all that, he wasn’t yet gaining ground fast enough to be much of a threat.

So far, so good.

A heartbeat later, Aramis’ horse lost its footing in the soft ground, precipitating him from the saddle and over the beast’s shoulder in an ungainly sprawl, hitting his head and shoulder against the gnarled bole of an ancient oak. The impact drove the breath from his body and left him gasping. He came up onto his knees, fumbling for his sword and dragging it out of its scabbard, only barely deflecting the killing blow aimed at his head by the last of his assailants, who had opted to meet him blade against blade.

The shock of the heavy blow reverberated down his arm as the man wheeled the horse around, showing commendable skill in the saddle. With the trees around them, the horseman was risking the same fate as his comrade, and was clearly aware of that. Swinging his leg over the horse’s back, the man dismounted and pressed home his attack as Aramis struggled to his feet. Still fighting to draw breath into his lungs, he parried the next stroke clumsily, knowing already that the man was a swordsman to be reckoned with. But Aramis sparred regularly in the training yard with Athos and knew how to hold his own against even the best of opponents, even though the blade was not his weapon of choice.

The sword point drove relentlessly at him and Aramis realised with sickening clarity – despite the dull pain between his temples – that his reactions had been slowed by the blow to his head and against an swordsman of this skill, any momentary delay between thought and action would prove to be his undoing.

Pain flared in his thigh and Aramis knew without needing to look down that the man had drawn first blood with a deep slash across his right leg, cutting through the leather of his coat and breeches. Aramis fumbled with his left hand for the dagger sheathed at his back. He drew the weapon, then shifted his grip on the hilt. Aramis had trained himself to be proficient with either hand when it came to projectile weapons and, in the absence of a third loaded pistol, a knife would serve his purpose just as well. He hurled the well-balanced blade in a vicious underarm throw, using a trick drilled into him by Porthos until it had become second nature, putting as much power behind it as he could.

The knife struck point first, taking the man in the hollow of his throat. As the blade sprouted from his flesh, a look of surprise registered on the man’s face. He crumpled to his knees, pulling the knife from his neck. Blood bubbled from the wound and the man fell forward onto the thick carpet of leaves, a gurgling gasp signalling his departure from this life.

Aramis leaned against the tree, his chest still heaving, as he tried to listen for the sounds of the man’s approach, but all he could hear was the harsh sound of his own breathing and the gentle snicker of the dead man’s horse as it moved off to make the acquaintance of Aramis’ own mount. Hearing nothing else, he slid to the ground, leaving his sword unsheathed, close at hand.

He knew from the slick feeling on his thigh and the bloom of hot pain spreading though his leg that the wound was deep and would need attention if he was not to bleed out, alone, in the forest. Athos and Porthos would carry out their mission before returning to see what had become of him, no matter how much concern they might have for him.

He was on his own.

* * * * *

Aramis noted with the detachment brought about by blood loss that his hands were shaking slightly as he opened the small leather roll that contained the surgical instruments he had put together during his time ministering to the battlefield injuries of his comrades in arms. He drew out one of the sturdy, slightly curved needles he used to close split flesh, and spared a small prayer of thanks for the fact that he had remembered to re-thread the needle after it had last seen use on Porthos’ shoulder. He was already beyond the degree of dexterity that threading it would have taken.

The effort required loosening his leather breeches, and sliding them and his linen undergarment down to his knees, had left him dripping with sweat and clenching his teeth against the pain. He’d looped his belt around his thigh, above the wound, tightening it enough to slow the flow of blood, and mopped away as much as possible with one of the clean linen squares he kept for that purpose. The split in his flesh gaped open and would need to be closed as soon as possible. He could not risk keeping the tourniquet around his thigh for too long, not if he wanted to keep the use of his leg.

Drawing in a deep breath, Aramis pressed his flesh closed and held it together while he dug the point of the needle into his skin and pushed firmly. Even with no one around to hear him, old habits died hard and Aramis refused to allow himself to vocalise his pain, just in case the man who’d been knocked from his horse was in a fit state to seek him out.

The point of the needle reappeared on the other side of the gash. Aramis wiped the blood from his fingertips on another linen square, seized the tip of the needle as firmly as he could and pulled.

In, out, in, out, remembering all the while to breathe as slowly and steadily as he could.

Each penetration of his flesh brought fresh sweat to his brow and after five stitches, he had to pause to brush it away and draw breath again, fighting for control through a haze of pain that had settled around him like a shroud, drawing tighter and tighter until it threatened to stifle him.

Staring dispassionately at the red ruin of his thigh, Aramis estimated that it would take another six stitches to close the wound, but he was losing his grip on both the needle and his senses. Offering up a fervent prayer to God for the strength to survive this ordeal, Aramis bent his head back to the task before him. The next two stitches he was able to bear in silence, but after that his resolve started to crumble and he was no longer able to bit back low moans of pain as his fingers did their work. His muscles were now quivering with strain and his hand was shaking. He tried unsuccessfully to moisten his lips with a tongue that felt too thick for his dry mouth.

When two thirds of the wound was closed, Aramis loosened the grip of the leather belt around his thigh and worked as quickly as he could to insert the remaining stitches. As he pulled the final one tight and locked off the thread, Aramis allowed his head to fall back against the tree trunk and the needle to slip from his fingers. Surrendering to the pain, he let it course through him, sweeping away conscious thought, leaving him drained and shaking, as defenceless as a new born foal.

With another prayer on his lips, this time of thanks, Aramis finally surrendered to the beckoning darkness.

* * * * *

“Aramis, wake up!”

Even through a haze of pain, Aramis could tell that Porthos sounded worried. That wasn’t good, something must have…

The throbbing in his right leg told its own story and brought him fully awake. Aramis looked down and could see the needle and thread still dangling from his thigh. The sight of it made sickness rise in his throat and he turned sideways, grimacing.

“Imagine how we felt on happening on such a bloody tableau,” Athos said dryly. “Porthos was quite overcome.”

“Never took either of you for the squeamish sort,” Aramis commented, swallowing hard to force the sickness back. . “At least not where someone else’s injuries are concerned.”

“Aramis, your hands are red with your own blood and you have just sewn up a gash in your own leg half the length of Porthos’s forearm. Permit us to indulge in some delicacy of feeling.”

“Athos, you have the delicacy of feeling of a butcher’s dog. Now do something useful. Trim that thread and stow my needle back in the pack.”

Athos knelt down beside him and carefully cut the thread with a sharp knife. “You look somewhat less than your usual pristine self.”

“Thank you for your touching concern.” Aramis did his best to muster a slight smile. “In case you are interested, I feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of cows with razors on their hooves. Next time you have to lay Porthos out so I can tend him, I’ll have more sympathy for his plight.”

“Won’t stop you taking the piss. You always do.” Porthos said good-humouredly. He stared down at Aramis’ bloody-covered leg. “Do we need to worry about you?”

Aramis raised his eyes to heaven, or at least to the canopy of overhanging branches. “Do I need to do all of your thinking for you?”

“Saves us the bother if you do.”

“In which case, no, I do not believe you have to worry about me. But I would count it a kindness if you could help me back into my breeches.”

“Not before we bandage that leg.” Athos looked up. “Porthos, it’s your turn to lose a shirt.”

“Can’t we use his?”

“Not on this occasion. To do so might make us appear churlish.”

A sudden tremor wracked Aramis’ body and, to his shame, he started to shudder like a raw recruit on the edge of his first battle.

A moment later, Athos’ strong hand gripped his shoulder and the cultured voice, for once devoid of its habitual mockery, said, “Easy. The worst is over. We took the precaution of sending out a cart from the village. You can ride in state to the chateau.”

“You expected to find me injured?”

“No, we expected to have to lug back four dead bodies, and you have proved us correct. But they can wait.”

“You dealt with the other men?”  
“Aramis, please, do you really need to ask?”

The sound of linen tearing told Aramis that Porthos had indeed sacrificed his shirt. The large, scarred hands that could be capable of such gentleness made quick work of binding the wound, and the flask of spirits that Athos held to his lips went a long way to quelling the roiling sickness in his stomach. Aramis nodded his thanks.

He leaned his head back against the tree trunk again, at last able to allow himself the luxury of relinquishing control, secure in the knowledge that he was the hands of the two men he trusted most in all the world.


End file.
